


There Is So Much More

by harlequindream



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-06 02:09:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4203972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequindream/pseuds/harlequindream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Air catches in the back of her throat, warmth in her chest. / It still makes her head reel, sometimes, how much he’s given to her. How much she’s taken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Is So Much More

**Author's Note:**

> I finally decided to get an account here so I could post things. And I already posted this on my tumblr, but here it is for those of you who ever read this here!

She angles the pen fluidly by a flick of her wrist, the last letter drawing off in the perfect amount of space provided. She does it before she can think. She does it and then stares at it for a little too long. “Cath,” David pulls her out of her thoughts, and she looks up at him with a distracted gaze.

“I’m fine,” she assures somewhat, the corners of her mouth creeping up and betraying her. Catherine passes the papers to the woman behind the desk and slips her hand into David’s on instinct. “It’s- that’s the first time I’ve written it like that.”

David brushes his thumb against the light freckles on the back of her hand, quirking an eyebrow.

“But on the contract you-

“Well, yes, I know that,” Catherine interrupts him, blowing air through her lips and shaking her head. “But that’s the first time it’s been _real._ ” And they both smile.

David releases her hand to wrap his arms around her waist and pulls her to him, right there in front of the people in the check-in line behind them and the woman sticking tags on their bags and _everybody._ “And how did it feel?” he asks her in a low tone, bringing out his accent more.

He’s really not joking at all.

It shows, sometimes, in little moments like these, how he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop. He’s David, so it’s not obvious, and she only knows it because it because they’re best friends above all else and she knows him like the back of her hand. He’s still a superstar actor and he still has a somewhat prideful ego, but it’s in times like these, when he looks at her and he’s measuring her response like she might take off running in the other direction at any moment regardless of what she’s assured him countless times, _that she wouldn’t dare._ Still, to this day, how often she’s ran is not in direct proportion to the amount of times she’s stayed. But the last time was the last time.

He’s not entirely blameless himself. He’s ran away just as much as she has, give or take some. It’s just taken _years_ for them to get to this point, and he doesn’t want to let her go, not again.

But they both know they’ll spend the rest of their lives proving this to each other.

Motivated by her thoughts, Catherine leans in to press a quick kiss to the edge of his jaw, whispering open and honestly.

“It felt _good._ Writing my name on a receipt-“ she cocks her head, eyes dancing at him “-has _never_ felt as good as that.”

He relaxes his expression, chuckling softly, and for a moment she thinks he might spin her around or doing something terribly childish or cliché because he can’t help himself. But then the baggage checker waves to them with their printed tickets, points in the right direction, and then _congratulates them._ And Catherine wonders whether it’s the destination on their itinerary, their body language, or the fact she still has on heavy make-up. Lips a dark red, eyes charcoal. Her hair still pinned and twisted like it has been since earlier, before. It feels like a lifetime has passed, not a few hours.

“Thanks so much,” David responds for them both when Catherine hasn’t said anything, and she realizes she’s drifted off, face heating in exasperation. She keeps falling in and out of a trance.

_Cloud nine,_ she thinks. _This must be cloud nine._

_+_

Catherine wakes about twenty minutes after they’ve taken off (the plane being delayed on the tarmac for half an hour so she just flowed off to sleep), to the buzz of the plane’s engines, the chatter of the passengers in front of them, and David’s arms curled around her in such a way that she’s never felt more comfortable in her life. She feels safe.

Inhaling deeply, she moves slightly to settle deeper, the seatbelt cutting into her middle, obnoxious. David’s breathing is uneven on her crown, conscious.

“Have a good nap?” he rumbles, accent lazy and voice unused.

She nods, all hazy, blinking the sleep from her eyes, and she starts drawing small circles on his forearm wrapped along her shoulder. “We didn’t take off long ago, so we’re close,” he asserts, and she hums in acknowledgement.

The first class seats are luxurious, enough space not to be _bothered._ She basks, looking down at her left hand and lifting it up to admire the way it glimmers and gleams in the faint light from the overhead beam. The diamond sparkles in a breathtaking way, but its simplicity is what is more appealing to her, not gaudy in the slightest. The weight of it on her finger is natural. David eyes it alongside her, twisting to press a gentle, adoring kiss to the curve of her neck. “I always thought it’d feel odd, but it’s just _normal,_ ” she admits, shallow sweetness seeping into her words.

“It suits you impeccably,” David adds. “You carry it well, you know. I don’t know why you thought it never would.”

Air catches in the back of her throat, warmth in her chest. He’s told her this before, and they’ve discussed it, but still. It still makes her head reel, sometimes, how much he’s given to her. How much she’s taken. “Ten years is a long time, David.”

David’s mouth downturns and she can feel him shrug like his next words are simple, like it’s just the way things are. And it is, for him. “I get to spend the rest of my life with you, Catherine. _So_ worth the wait.”

There’s a lot unsaid between them, sometimes. It’s just the way things are.

A small, waning smile graces her face, and she snuggles into his chest.

“I love you,” she whispers, closing her eyes, focusing on the beat of his heart.

_+_

It’s almost one in the morning by the time they arrive, bodies heavy and hearts thick. The baggage claim is passed with him and his octopus arms, never leaving her waist, and the interesting thing is, in another lifetime (not too long ago either) she would have disliked the proximity, would have wanted her own means. But with David it’s always been different, always been like this really. She likes having him close to her, and it doesn’t feel _clingy._ She loves being held by him. Perhaps because age has softened her. Some days she can feel it in her bones, how despite the joking it _has_ been over ten years since they met, when they were jumping around on set together. They are open and outward, blissfully attached. Every sight is a marker of insuring faith, and she drinks it in greedily, every little detail.

“I still don’t know what your plans are,” Catherine reminds him teasingly, pulling her bag along. Admires the way his somehow existent biceps bulge when he hoists their luggage into the taxi they waived for, inclining her head. “But you do.”

“But I do,” is all David says, when they slide into the back seat, with a cheeky grin. The atmosphere is different, she realizes, heavy with some kind of meaning. Less than a half hour into the city, and Catherine is still amazed at how true the name is; the city of light. She can make out the top of the Eiffel Tower if she tilts her body the right way, glistening in the sky, lit up like a Christmas tree. David gives the driver directions to their hotel in French, pausing at some words, remembering what they are, and even though she’s busy taking in the night outside the car, she giggles at his words, and his eyes never once leave her face. “I don’t know it perfectly like you do,” he whispers.

_+_

“Don’t unpack,” David instructs her.

The door shuts behind them with a residual thud, and she strolls into the high dollar suite, the ambiance and the sheets and the crown moulding and the temperature, all perfect. She swallows when she opens the windows to see the view, beautiful with the bright lights against a black background, and when she looks back David is looking at her like she’s the only thing. She’s the only thing.

“David,” she murmurs, voice odd to her own ears. It’s overwhelmingly perfect. “If you want to wait until we aren’t as tired to-“

To answer the unfinished inquiry he crosses the hotel room in long, hard strides. He kisses her with such fervour it takes her breath away. Riveting in degrees from how it was at the altar, from how it’s been, languid and easy, and this is surrendering from the way they have been, from the peace.

He kisses her and it’s like lighting a match.

Hands going to the back of her dress to unzip, he’s touching every part of her, being slow about it because he’s realizing he has all the time in the world, and when he finally lets the dress fall to the ground, he drops down to one knee beside her.

Crawling his hand up her leg, across the shape of her hips, and it’s a shock through her body when she realizes it’s all just a little bit of history repeating. They’ve done it like this before, years ago, and she flushes because _he remembers._ “ _David,_ ” she giggles, shaking her head from above him, turning to face him. She runs her hands through his hair when he kisses both her hip bones, when he stops, abrupt. Twining his arms around from the position, intimate and submitting, resting his forehead against the softness of her mid drift and inhaling as if it’s the first time he’s been able to breathe.

Catherine knows the change, and her laughter at the show of things quiet.

“David,” she grasps his attention, him, looking up at her with those glowing brown eyes, and she doesn’t know why she keeps saying his name. He stands on his own two feet, and she wraps her fingers around his forearms, letting her eyes drift shut. She’s standing there in nothing but a chemise and he’s still dressed, and it really feels like that one time he seems to be remembering. Catherine sighs.

David proceeds to bend down with little trouble, and this didn’t happen, _before._ Picks her up.

Bridal style.

_+_

When he enters her she makes a sound she wasn’t aware she was capable of.

“Yes,” she gasps, tossing her head against the pillows, arching up into his chest. They haven’t been together in a week because of the last minute arrangement and stress, and it’s incredibly tight and filling, and it reminds her of being marked. And she is, isn’t she? She’s marked.

“Say you’re mine,” he reads her thoughts, and it’s tender right up until it _isn’t._

David nips at her neck sharply, hard enough to leave a purple prickle, and Catherine hisses, fixating him with her mossy stare. “Is that what you want?”

He punctuates the rhythm with a deep, off beat thrust, and Catherine’s stomach churns. “You’re mine,” he growls, and the words should be off putting, but somehow they aren’t, all of a sudden. She’s wanted to be his for so long, as far back as she can remember. But then there was timing and decisions and _people_ , and none of it added up right.

But now it does. Now it’s perfect, and she’s strung out of the feeling, unable to postulate a proper response. He hitches her leg up further onto his waist, angling his hips up, and he knows her body. Her nails dig into his shoulder blades and Catherine tremors, getting hotter and wetter, and she’s so close, harsh breaths and weak moans in an alto timbre. Panting, and he’s nailing that spot that has her jerking beneath him.

It’s so close. She’s so close, and she bites her lip so hard it bleeds and makes herself _look_ at him. “I’m yours,” she croaks.

Then Catherine cries out.

_+_

They forget to eat, but they do shower, wash away the dirt and grime and sweat of a long, long day. She rubs off her makeup beforehand to avoid raccoon eyes, and looking at her reflection, she notices how she almost looks younger. Looks blissful.

Maybe it’s the afterglow, but she’ll take what she can get.

They get the water so hot it fogs the mirrors, makes her freckled skin splatter red. Through the clear curtain she can see how they look; her wet, ginger hair splattered across the tile. He makes love to her again, their chorus echoing off the walls, and after they fall into bed again, together, dripping, and he pulls a blanket up and holds her as tight as he can.

They sleep like the dead, and it’s only the beginning.

_+_

She wakes to the sound of her phone buzzing, blinking harshly at the white that filters in through the curtains. “They probably want to know if we got in alright,” David predicts sleepily, nuzzling her shoulder with his stubble. She checks.

It’s Lee, of _all_ people.

_Have fun and enjoy yourself, Mrs Tennant._

Catherine furrows her eyebrows in suspicion. She didn’t take his name, of course, but that doesn’t make her any less Tennant than it does Tate. “Just Lee,” she explains, showing him the message. David hums against her skin, smirking. Then, quick as a fox, he moves away from her, down the bed. The sheets fall away from him and she shivers against the air, suddenly cold in comparison to what it had been the night before. Her thick, curly hair is still slightly damp, and he’s handsy.

“Mrs Tennant,” David calls her, pressing wet kisses to the insides of her thighs. She opens her legs at the same time he pulls them apart. “Mrs Tennant, Mrs Tennant, Mrs Tennant,” he practically sing songs, husky and blithe, still heavy with sleep, but God, if the way he looks at her doesn’t get her going in zero to ninety.

Amusement is clear on her features at his words, but then he dips his tongue right into her opening, no nonsense. He eats her out like he’s been starving for decades and she’s like a ripened peach, and noise rips from her, but she doesn’t _care._ She’s liberated. He’s rapturous. It’s the best way to wake up.

Best.

_+_

Eventually their stomachs begin to concave, and her flesh wasn’t literally a meal, even though he plans to make it a necessary construct of his daily diet plan. Room service is prompt, and they share a plate of pancakes with fresh strawberries and whipped cream. Around the time they’re finishing up, Catherine swipes a finger through the white substance and drifts it along _his_ inner thighs. Licks it up, relishes the way his finger weave through the locks of hair. Returns the favour because she _can._

_+_

They literally fuck half their day away, napping all through lunch time. It’s all on David’s schedule, so they don’t leave the hotel that first day until the middle of the afternoon. Paris is an exquisite city, they know, and they walk hand in hand, through the streets crowded with tourists. Deliriously happy.

When they stop at a quaint café for their late meal and look at the menu, Catherine’s fluent French comes in handy. There, the live music drifts into her ears and she’s eating off his plate, trying to weasel as many details about the next few days out of him as she can. Beneath the table, their feet play, and Catherine’s cells convulse with how much is all still unknown, how she’d been open to giving David his freedom in planning their honeymoon, but is still itching to _know._

It’s romantic in some obscure way, and maybe it’s because she leaves things till the last minute, so the unknown of what is to come is strangely attractive. And even if that’s different with David, a small, minuscule part of her is still a tad bit annoyed at all the secrecy.

“Why don’t I give educated guesses, and you tell me if I’m even _close?_ ” Catherine suggests. David snickers, denying her with a shake of the head. Flipping her hair, Catherine rolls her eyes.

“I’m not playing this with you. That’s your bag, not mine,” David observes, the corners of his mouth turning up in amusement. She smirks. After a moment, he leans in and rests his elbows on the table. “I still can’t believe how long it’s been since you’ve visited.”

“Why?” Catherine asks, narrowing her eyes. “It’s not like I’ve had all this free time in the past decade to just whisk away to Paris.” She had her career, and Erin, and Twig had never been fond of Paris in the first place.

David shrugs good naturedly. “I suppose I do understand that. The busy lives we lead and such,” David watches the way she flashes her smile, gets lost in it. “Weren’t really one for vacations much, eh?”

Catherine looks down at the table, pensive. When she looks back up at him, she’s only half joking. “Apparently, Barcelona was the only acceptable place.”

David shakes his head in despair and wonder, sniffling.

“I just don’t understand that, never have.”

“Why?” Catherine murmurs, more serious. They’ve discussed this, years back, in the back of the theatre after an August show. His reaction to their only family trip, that was to a place she’d been to many times before, was exaggerated to say the least. David matches her tone, gauging her, twining their fingers like locks across the metal surface.

“Because,” he clears his throat, “you know so much about the world, and it’s a shame you were denied being able to see it for yourself.”

“It’s not like I wasn’t _allowed_ to,” she defends, but then softens her tone so as to explain. “I’ve told you that I had gotten pregnant, and we were saving for the hospital bills and then after I had Erin I-“ she pauses, breathes in before she continues, “And after that there just wasn’t any time, what with the show and then everything else. So by the time came that we could all go away, we were just exhausted and opted for something easier than somewhere to explore a lot.”

By David’s mouth tightening, his hand in her own slackens, and it breaks her heart a little. She knows he probably doesn’t like hearing about it, even though he sincerely loves Erin. That doesn’t change the fact that there was so much before, so much he wasn’t a part of. But he’s got his own story, quite similar too, so they’ve both got cautions they’d rather keep to themselves. “I know, Cath. You don’t have to explain.”

There’s a pregnant pause where she doesn’t know if he’s going to say anything else, but then he stands, offers her his grip. “David, no,” she blushes, looking at the couples on the makeshift dance floor of the sidewalk. “I don’t.”

“You did two nights ago.”

“It’s tradition. And what if people recognise you here?”

“So what if they do?” he counters, showcases his goofy grin, and wiggles his fingers eagerly.

He won’t back down, though, and the band starts a slower tune, something that makes her heart stutter in her chest. “One dance,” he pleads with her, jutting his bottom lip out, and she goes like butter, easy to cut through. She doesn’t _deny_ him this.

Wraps her arms around his neck once they move out far enough, to the centre of it all, and it’s not so much dancing as swaying.

“My mum was _so_ happy at the reception, you know,” Catherine remembers, making a sweet sigh. “Can’t believe how everything has just flown by.”

David hums in assent.

“What?” Catherine mouths. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Chest to chest, she can feel the way his body puffs up, some silly show of masculinity. It’s all instinct, for him, somehow. “I want to take you everywhere,” he tells her, and then cuts her off when she goes to protest, desperate for her to understand. “No, Catherine, listen. Not because I want to show anybody up, _trust me,_ ” the last two words have an edge to them, mocking.

Because, in all honesty, David could show Twig up with his hands tied. And Catherine knows it.

“We don’t have to see everything at once, I mean, we’ve both already seen a lot. But one trip a year, how’s that? If you’d even,” David stops, worry in his eyes, “want to?”

Her eyes glisten, and she bites her tongue to steady herself, leans in to whisper the words in his ear. They are true and unfiltered, and she doesn’t know how she ended up to have so much when she’s lost so much, but she did. She has all she needs.

“I’d go anywhere with you.”

_+_

It’s still dark outside when David shakes her awake, telling her, “Get dressed.”

“What?” she whispers groggily, glancing at the alarm clock. She’s had five hours of sleep. “David, what the fuck?”

“Come on,” he beckons. “The car is waiting. The traffic won’t be as bad this early.”

“Car?”

“We have a rental car waiting,” he explains, impatient. “Outside.”

“You kept me up last night,” she accuses, pushing her messy hair behind her ear and rolling over to stand on lug legs, naked.

David sighs, and she can _tell_ he’s already had coffee, the bastard. “I _told_ you we needed sleep. You’re the insatiable one.”

He realises what he’s said three seconds _after_ he’s said it. “I mean-

“Oh, no. I’ll remember you said that, David Tennant.”

She proceeds to slam the bathroom door shut, and David wants to kick himself.

God, he’s in for it.

_+_

The air conditioner in the Volvo is on full blast, and Catherine studies the map he’d handed her, the red circles of sharpie ink that smell like chemicals. Turns out, once David gave her coffee and they were a hundred miles out of the city, her mood had improved tremendously. “Kicking it old school?” she questions with a click of her tongue, adjusting her sunglasses.

“There’s only one way to do a road trip,” David answers haughtily. “And it doesn’t involve a bloody machine that tells you where to turn every three seconds,” he goes on, looking at her from across the car. “Though, I did want to see if you fit the stereotype of being the wife with horrible navigating skills.”

She rolls up the map and swats him with it, laughs so hard her stomach cramps.

_+_

The drive is only supposed to be three hours long, but with all the detours, with all the distractions, it ends up being closer to four. For instance:

The road they are on is encompassed in tall, leaning trees and vines, and all she can see is green and the road ahead of them, and she had no idea France had so many winding roads within so many forests, had no idea until they were suddenly there. It’s a bout of silence when she looks over at him, leaves her pulse to the wayward tick of him and his mighty jaw, with his Adam’s apple bobbing, and she’s thinking of how it would be to lean over and lick it- and that’s the moment she remembers what she’s wearing.

And, okay, maybe _some_ of this had been planned out.

Revenge is sweet like heaven, and all it takes is her brushing her hands over her thighs for him to shoot a look in her direction. The dress she wears is one he’s seen before, one with tiny red and orange flowers, a tie around the back, ends an inch above her knees, and she drags it up quietly. “Catherine,” he murmurs, thick in his accent.

The sunlight flits through the trees, casting bright splotches over her skin.

She drags the dress up until her pale, porcelain thighs are in full view. Brushes her fingers over them, a lover’s touch. Doesn’t look at him, but can hear the way he takes in air like he’s suffocating. “What are you doing?” he asks, but he already knows.

Victim to circumstance.

Catherine parts her knees, and slips a hand between her legs.

David groans, clenching the steering wheel. “Catherine, do you-

“Have on underwear?” Catherine lifts her fingers to her mouth, drags her gaze up to sear his, hopes, fleetingly, that they do not crash. She sucks on them, sucks them clean of her juices. “No,” she answers low, innocent enough, then speaks slowly, like she’s speaking to a child. “Why would I? Wouldn’t want to ruin them. Don’t you know? I’m insatiable.”

David pulls over, so it’s four hours instead of three.

_+_

They stay in a cottage like place near Nantes, and a man who looks like he owns the place greets David with a bear hug. “David,” he speaks, accent surprisingly more Scottish than French like Catherine expected. “So nice to see you again.”

“He’s an old friend of my dad’s,” David explains, after they are tucked up into their room, cozy and quiet. “He moved here years ago. Always wanted me to come visit him, now I have an opportunity.”

Two days later, the quiet is oppressive. It’s so much different than the booming city, such a small town, and once Catherine thinks she’s had about as much as she can handle, David tells her they’ll leave the next day. Still, a part of her enjoys the ability to be left alone to her thoughts, and on that last night David takes her hand and they travel though a beaten path, right into a clearing with cut grass. She wonders if there’s snakes and spiders, but he assures her he’ll protect her, and it’s chivalrous and so David, and how she’s in love with him, how she loves.

They lay down a blanket and watch the stars, so cliché and overdone, and that’s when David explains better. Straight out of a romance movie, heavy talks and soft kisses. He starts talking and doesn’t stop until he’s through.

“I kept wondering,” David mutters, her head resting on his chest, his arms wrapped around her to fight the summer chill. “What it would be like to take you here someday. I’d spoken to my dad about coming up here after I’d finished with Doctor Who, for a break. I never came, but if I did, I thought about taking you with me,” David swallows hard. “Just you and me.”

“Of course, that wouldn’t have been at all possible,” he continues after a moment, the words coming easier. “I just wanted to think that maybe we could have had this.”

“I’m just-

“No,” he stops her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Don’t say anything. I’m glad you’re here, now.” Instead of saying anything else, Catherine manoeuvres to straddle him, and his mouth drops open an inch or so. “Cath, we’re in a field.”

“Don’t really care,” she tells him smoothly, pouting as her hands don’t hesitate to find his zipper, to pull her dress up and push her underwear out of the way. “You’re my husband, I don’t give a fu-

_+_

The next dot on the map just so happens to be a winery. David doesn’t bring her for the wine, but for the gorgeous surroundings and the excellent vegetarian menu in the restaurant.

But for the life of her, Catherine thinks maybe once wouldn’t hurt if she had _some,_ since she’s there and all, and this ladies and gentleman, is how she finds herself tentatively, and quite giddily, stepping into an elevator, David coming after her (déjà vu) although-

The woman with her blonde curls, and tiny stature, and bubble-gum popping look-

That never happened when David chased her to make sure she wasn’t _drunk_ , just giddy. There was never a tiny blonde in the scenario _then._

This part of France is known for its reds, and though it’s not vodka, it gives quite a different effect to Catherine. They’d spent the day on the farm, tasting too much here and there, cheddar and red grapes, jack and green, and Catherine is way more than just giddy, and David is trying not to fall to the ground when they get back to their hotel for the night- so in the grand scheme of things, bubble-gum blonde is the last thing on Catherine’s mind.

But something strikes her hard and in the gut, in her alcohol induced haze, how the woman had looked at David that morning, as she’d handed them a key card at the front desk, and _why is she going up to their floor?_ Catherine wonders. David has a on a ring. Her ring. That she gave him. And this woman, in all her gall, is still looking at David like he’s a piece of meat. Catherine has already lost him once to a blonde.

_It isn’t happening again,_ Catherine fumes drunk and disorganised in her mind.

Blondie looks at Catherine and Catherine looks at Blondie, and in all her adult life, Catherine has never been what one would call a jealous woman. At her current standing in life, insecure is the farthest from a label one would stick with her, so the next thing that happens is kind of an outlier for Catherine’s existence right now.

She proceeds to kindly grab David’s ass.

Blondie chokes on air.

David, for all his ungodly oblivious manliness, pulls her in for a kiss, unashamed of the fact the numbers are climbing and there’s someone _else_ in their presence- David pushes her up against the wall of the elevator like he once did, years ago in a very different building, pushes her legs up around his waist and kisses the hell out of her. Catherine moans loudly, just for the show. Catherine kisses him back, and there’s a juvenile and kept part of her that revels in the thrill of publicity, which he seems to bring out in her. She thinks, _mine, mine, mine, you stupid woman, he’s mine._

The other woman practically runs from the elevator when the doors open, but by then Catherine has forgotten she was even there in the first place.

_+_

They leave their last stop with bags of grapes for the road. Catherine sits across from him as they fly down the road and pops one after the other in her mouth, occasionally passing one to David. She eats them like they’re candy, David’s never understood her love for them. She turns the radio dial and pops another in her mouth. Checks her phone.

She realises she shouldn’t have had anything to drink, considering how well it went when she woke up last time. Now, there’s a dull ache in her head that she can’t entirely ignore, still though, it’s better than the sharp pain from last time. They stick to motorways today, and the scenery isn’t near as pretty. Erin has texted her, asking how it’s been, and if she can take Trevor to her dads house instead of leaving him with Catherine’s mum, and Catherine is hard pressed to deny, she is nervous at the aspect of life going on without her, without them.

But David turns up the radio and she’s confused right up until she _isn’t._

A grin splits her face, drunk on love and some stupid, melting haze, and when she thinks back to how it was with Twig, in the beginning, she knows this is different. There wouldn’t be any way for it to be even remotely similar. It’s not even in the same ballpark.

“We’ll always be together,” he sings, off key. Catherine giggles, a sporadic sound, bites her bottom lip at it.

“However far it seems,” she tries out, only half volume. She doesn’t consider herself a singer, but he’d dispute that. Still, he juts out his left hand to take her palm and lift it to his mouth, and she can’t stop smiling, even if it makes the headache worse. David twines their fingers together. They hold there, over the centre console.

Catherine looks at the open road before them. The song ends, and David asks her, “What would we have named a little girl?”

Catherine goes blank.

Numbly blank.

She’s genuinely stunned. Like shock, but more along the lines of being in a body of water, not knowing how deep it is, going to put flailing feet on the ground, and finding nothing but abyss. That toss of her stomach, a bottomless pit.

She feels cold at the question, and she doesn’t know _why._

David doesn’t know what he’s said until he’s said it, and maybe that’s the tragedy of being so effortless these days. David doesn’t think to hold back anymore.

“Why would you ask me that?”

David finally does look at her, looks down at their hands.

She hadn’t even realised she’d pulled hers away.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, but she can tell she’s hurt him from the way he gets mechanical, robotic. “It was just a thought.”

Catherine blows air between her lips, tries to move the curly hair from her eyes.

She suddenly feels so, so tired. Wants to go home.

“It’s not a pleasant one,” she admits quietly, terse, looking back at the open road and going to hold David’s hand again. But instead, David makes her hold hers flat. He pats it softly, lovingly, strokes little circles with his thumb, and he, he’s trying to fix it too.

They’ve been doing so well.

“That’s okay, Catherine,” he assures. “We don’t have to talk about that.”

“Thank you.”

She grimaces. The grapes have made her sick at her stomach.

_+_

They find the ocean and it roars ominously, harsh against the sharp rocks.

Dinard is an elite place, and in the hotel restaurant they eat fresh fish (vegetables for her, thank you) and extravagant desserts, and conversation is not as flowing as it has been, but Catherine passes it off as exhaustion from the night before. She studies her wedding ring and David rubs his hand across her thigh, and they share their dessert that tastes too sweet.

There’s a balcony in their suite.

She can hear the waves screaming beneath the building, right there at the sea. Metal railing digs into the flesh of her upper thigh, and she’s holding onto David. She doesn’t teeter because he won’t let her, and it makes her want to laugh, how close to death she could be. But that’s a bitter, inappropriate thought, so instead she kisses David like she’s mad at him, like she wants to tear him apart.

That night they are side by side, face to face, when they fuck.

Have to work at the release, build up a sweat, muscles singing with fatigue, and after Catherine comes, burying her scream into the crook of his neck, she traces David’s face and watches him fall asleep. He looks sad as he does, and that’s the difference between before, then, and now. David knows when to push, and when not to. Not for the first time in their relationship, Catherine wishes he didn’t know her quite so well. Stays awake one hour more, just like that.

She makes sure he’s fully passed out before she lets the tears fall.

_+_

The next morning, she wakes alone, but doesn’t have to go far to find him.

David is out on the balcony, and the ocean looks just as violent as it sounded the night before. A wreckage to be seen, with the dark rocks and rippling whitecaps.

She’s in nothing but a sheet, but it doesn’t matter.

He barely looks at her when she moves next to him, pulling her cloth tighter around her, collecting her thoughts. She opens her mouth, closes it. Opens it again.

“Erin,” she speaks steadily. “She’d have had the name Erin.”

David’s head snaps sideways, his nostrils flaring, eyebrow quirking. “Catherine-

“No, David. Listen. Just listen. It’s silly, I know, but I thought about it, once. Someone on set when we were filming Doctor Who said ‘wouldn’t it be funny if you ended up together in the long run’, and I _thought about it,_ ” she recalls, focusing on one jutting stone. “About marrying you and having our own kids, and I’d always wanted to name my daughter Erin. And it was _silly_ , but I thought all of us together sounded so perfect. Don’t you think that, with your kids?”

She’s crying, then.

She’s babbling and shying away from herself and she can taste salt and smell it so heady, permeating everything, and then David is pulling her in, to his chest, holding her and rocking her and she _hurts._ She aches all over.

“And I’m sorry,” she tells him, and if she was considered any other woman the tone would be considered a wail, but she’s not, she’s Catherine, and David is trying to hold her together by the seams right there in some foreign country. Trying to tell her it’s alright, but she won’t stop talking. “I don’t regret my child, or my family but what if it had been with you? What if we had found each other years ago, when I first saw you on that screen? I’d have loved it with you,” Catherine whimpers into his skin, sniffling wetly.

David’s face crumples, and he kisses her cheeks, kisses her brow.

“I don’t regret my family either, but I do wonder what if it had been with you, too. Right now, I just need you for the rest of it,” he tries to make her understand. “Just you, Cath.”

_+_

The drive along the coast is filled with meandering roads, and it’s peaceful aftermath, quiet. They’re only on the road for two hours, and Catherine rolls down the window and relishes the cool breeze against her skin, the wind in her hair.

“Your hair is so curly,” David notes, half smiling. “I’ve missed it like this.”

She hasn’t had desire to straighten it and put the usual product in it the past few days, and the humidity has made it resort to its natural texture. Catherine finds herself in tandem, fond.

“Me too.”

_+_

Deauville is warm and sunny, and the beach is every bit as tourist ridden as one would expect. Though, no one seems to be bothering them, for which they are both extremely grateful. It becomes abruptly clear why David had told her to pack a swimsuit. By the time they get their suitcases up into the room and have lunch at a little bistro on the boardwalk. She writes ‘Mrs’ on the check.

She doesn’t stare at it for as long as she did the very first time, but it still takes her breath away. She wonders if she’ll ever get used to it.

It’s a good kind of surprise, like Christmas every morning.

“This is my wife,” David introduces her to some couple he meets beside the pool, as she rubs the SPF50+ into her delicate skin. Her bathing suit is navy and white, striped, and shows too much cleavage, which once again gives them déjà vu of a different blue and white striped bikini top.

Catherine rests her palms flat on the bed and looks out at the blue water through the window while David sinks his teeth into her shoulder and takes her from behind. To quiet her, David puts a hand over her mouth, lets her bite down on his finger.

When she draws blood, he won’t let her live it down.

_+_

They find a secluded spot on the private beach owned by the hotel and she’s in this ridiculously floppy hat to hide her pale face and they spent an indecent amount of time putting sunscreen on her, earlier, but there’s still a ninety percent chance she’ll still burn. This is why David saved this place for the very end of their trip.

His swim trunks are white, bright against the tan sand, and she buries her feet in it, leans back against him. When he flips them, it’s abrupt. He pins her and crawls between her legs and kisses her languid and lean, she’ll never tire of his kissing her, and she never wants it to end.

Sand gets _everywhere._

_+_

The sunset on the beach is one of the most beautiful sights Catherine has ever seen, and she’s seen a lot of beautiful things. “What time is the car due back tomorrow?” she asks David, biting her lip.

“Three,” he informs her sadly. “But we’ll come back, one day.”

“Promise?” Catherine murmurs, stopping to dip her feet into the waves.

David nuzzles her neck. “Promise.”

_fin._


End file.
